


Rage, Rage

by Boomchick



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Everyone is out of their depth, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Including me., M/M, MT!Prompto, More tags to follow as I figure it out, Poor Noctis, Poor Prompto, Prompto Says No, Spoilers, Ten Years Later, more of a 'complicate it'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boomchick/pseuds/Boomchick
Summary: Noctis is ready to face his destiny. He's resigned himself. Readied himself. Made his peace.It's just that he's been so busy thinking about what he has to do, he'd kind of forgotten that there were other forces at play.And Prompto Argentum is not the sort to stand by and let a friend die.[Discontinued]





	Rage, Rage

“Prom,” Noctis said into the silence, “you can’t hold me here forever.”

Prompto didn’t reply. He paced outside the bars, his hands twisting into the fabric of his shirt. In so many ways, he hadn’t changed, Noctis thought. In so many ways he was still the same kid Noctis had played video games with till three in the morning. Still the same guy who sang off-key songs about chocobos to lighten the mood. The same kid, just now he had a scruffy goatee and even tireder eyes than usual.

But now that he'd had the time to really observe him, Noctis could see all the ways he’d changed. For one thing, the old Prompto Argentum never would have kidnapped him.

“You could at least throw me a potion.” Noctis was doing his best to keep his voice calm. He was a king. He was THE king. And soon, he would be officially the last of his line. Dealing with a kidnapping hadn’t been in the plan.

“I’m sorry.” Prompto’s voice was shaking. His lip was twitching--that same look he’d had all those years ago. When he was being eaten alive from the inside and keeping his mouth shut. “I can’t.”

“What, did you run out?” Banter was easy. Ribbing and teasing too. “Iggy would never forgive you. He’s always on us about the Curatives.”

“I didn’t run out.” Prompto was already back to pacing, his fingers worrying at his wristband.

“You shot me, Prom.” Noctis couldn’t hide the hurt in that. He didn't really want to. Calm, he cautioned himself. Calm. Like a king.

“I bandaged you up,” Prompto wouldn’t look at him. He raked a hand through his messy spikes of hair, staring at the wall.

“What’s your plan here?” Noctis almost stood up, but gave up on the motion. The ring was too heavy, and he was too tired. He might as well rest. He could probably tear his way out of the cell, but it would wear him out. Better to get Prompto to snap out of it.

“My plan’s the same as always.” Prompto’s voice was almost normal, but the grin he shot Noctis was forced to the breaking point. “Keep you alive.”

Noctis felt cold all over, and he didn’t think it was the magic this time. It wasn’t the bullet wound in his foot or the cell around him. He had a whole pile of blankets. Prompto had even taped a bunch of pictures to the wall. It was as sad as it was charming, and that was Prompto all over.

“That’s not in the cards anymore.” Noctis said. The words weighed heavier than the ring, but he’d learned to carry them. Learned through years of silence and light.

“Then I’m changing the deck.” Prompto shot back, quick on the draw as always.

“I’m not playing, Prompto.”

“Neither am I!”

If Noctis had thought to doubt that, the look on Prompto’s face would have convinced him. It wasn’t that he’d never seen it before. He had. Once, at a distance, as he sprinted towards a room with a terrible device holding his best friend captive. A look of agony and determination and fear. Noctis had wiped it away then, drawing him down, lifting him up, reassuring him.

Now he was the cause of it, whether he wished to be or not.

“Don’t make this harder than it is.” Noctis hated how weak his voice sounded. “I have a duty, Prompto.”

It seemed like a thousand years ago. Clarus talking to Noctis about his duty. Prompto behind him, stifling snickers every time Clarus repeated the word, desperately trying not to laugh and get them both in more trouble.

The Prompto outside the cell didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“So do I.” He said. “So do Gladio and Ignis, even if they don’t seem to remember.”

“Gladio and Ignis understand what needs to be done. The world is dying. That’s more important than me.”

“It’s not.” Prompto spits back. He’s still not looking at him. Still pacing. His anxious hands have switched to picking at his fingers, obsessively removing the dirt and blood beneath his nails.

“The sun has to rise again, Prompto.”

“We’ve lived in the dark for a decade. We can handle it.”

“People are dying, Prom. People have already died. I’m late as it is. This has to stop or Ardyn wins.”

It was a cheap shot throwing that name out there. Prompto flinched away from it, even after all the years of distance. Did he ever slow down, Noctis wondered. Ever talk to the others about his history? His weeks of imprisonment in Gralea? 

Not that Noctis had any room to talk. He’d never slowed down to talk with the others before. But he'd had a lot of time to think now. Prompto had been busy staying alive. Guilt surged in him, fresh and cold. They all deserved to live in the light. They deserved a king who could keep them safe.

“I don’t care.” Prompto said, his low voice cracking on the words.

“I know it’s a lot to handle,” Noctis said, trying to be patient, to be kind. “I know I just came back. But there’s no changing this Prom. Either I die now and everything is okay again, or everything ends. Either way I’m going to die. One way, everyone else gets to make it out okay.”

“You deserve better.” Prompto leaned against the wall. He looked exhausted, Noctis thought. The dim light of the imperial base cast heavy shadows on his face, and there was a smear of blood on his cheek. 

That hadn't been there before Noctis lost consciousness. Before Prompto shot him, and whatever had followed to bring him here, to this empty base. Noctis couldn't remember anything after the ringing echo of the firearm and Prompto's arm wrapping around his neck.

“Many died for the king,” Noctis said.

“Stop it.” Prompto said, more a plea than an order.

“Now the king must die for all.”

“You didn’t ask those people to die.” Prompto muttered, curling in on himself against the wall outside the cell.

“That doesn’t change things Prom. This is the end of the line. I’m asking you to ride it with me. You and Gladio and Ignis. One last time, all four of us.”

“All I ever wanted.” Prompto muttered. There were tears on his cheeks now. His lower lip trembled like the young man Noctis remembered, but he didn’t waver like he had then. His eyes stayed fixed on the wall, and his breaths stayed steady under his crying.

“Then let me out,” Noctis murmured. “Let’s go back.”

For a moment, Noctis thought it had worked. Then for the first time in a long time, Prompto’s eyes looked over towards him. Noctis knew they were blue. Bright as the sky. But in the lighting they looked dark, cast over. Like the new sky, Noctis thought sadly. Like the sky of the world he’d left them to.

“The last time I went on a ride with you,” Prompto said slowly. “Do you remember it?”

“Prompto…”

“You choked me and pushed me off a train.” Prompto laughed like it was a joke, low and weary and bitter.

“Ardyn had--”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean--”

“I know, Noct. But I’m not hopping on for one more ride.”

“I don’t want to fight you,” Noctis whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t stand in my way on this Prompto. Please.”

“I believed you, you know.” Prompto sighed, his eyes sliding off Noctis again. “That it would go back to normal one day. That we’d all travel together again, and it’d be like old times. I wouldn’t have minded if it was in the dark. It kept me going, all these years. I guess that was stupid of me.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” Noctis said, even as he tried to think. Tried to clear his head enough to figure out a way. 

He had the ring, but Prompto had turned on one of those jamming things in this old base. It must have lit the place up like a beacon, so surely the others would eventually hear about it. Surely people would come. But for now he didn't have his weapons. The ring’s spells were made to kill. To disintegrate. To destroy. He couldn’t use that on Prompto.

Noctis could phase through the bars easily enough, but Prompto had already shot him once, even if it had been from a distance and through his foot. There was no guarantee that he wasn’t desperate enough to do it again, less carefully. Noctis couldn’t afford to waste any time healing, so he’d have to stop him, hard and fast.

But he couldn’t imagine hurting Prompto. Not with his fists or his father’s ring.

Prompto didn’t answer him. He sat against the wall, his head tilted and his eyes on the walls inside Noctis’s cell. He had one leg bent in front of him, and one arm draped wearily over it. Noctis followed his gaze, and landed on the pictures taped to the walls around him.

“You got them printed.” He commented. “Ever end up being Vyv’s photographer?”

“Vyv’s died.” Prompto said. “And there’s not much call for photography these days. Power’s running low, so I don’t keep my camera charged anymore. I printed them before it got so bad. So I could still look sometimes.”

Noctis didn’t want to cry. There wass no real reason to cry. He’d spent the last ten years surrounded by the memories. They'd held him together. Glued all his pieces in the right place while the crystal remade him. But somehow it was different, looking at the four of them here and now. With Prompto in front of him--with the memory of Gladio’s new scars and Ignis’s scarred eyes still fresh in his mind. Noctis had intended to look through Prompto's photos--every last one of them--before stepping into the palace. He’d hoped to take one with him. When he looked over the wall, he didn’t know how he would ever have chosen.

“Besides.” Prompto was saying outside the cell. “I didn’t want to share these with anyone.”

“What about the others?” Noctis asked, letting his gaze slide over the wall, the memories lined up. “Surely you’ve shared with them. Oh, well… Gladio at least.”

“Nah,” Prompto said, shaking his head. “Gladio never cared. Ignis and I talk about them sometimes. He’s still way more into my photography than Gladio ever was, unless I took a cool one of him. The blindness thing, it’s not like you’d expect it to be. And I’ve gotten pretty good at describing stuff right. For a while, I’d pretend to take more pictures. Tell him about them. So he wouldn’t worry. But he figured me out, so I stopped. It wasn’t really nice of me anyway.”

“Sounds pretty nice of you,” Noctis argued.

“You only say that because you don’t know Ignis.” Prompto said flatly, and the words hurt more than Noctis’s foot by far.

“Of course I do,” He argued, but even as he said so he felt his conviction waiver. Especially when Prompto’s lips quirked up in a half-smile.

“You know 20 year old Ignis,” Prompto corrected, wryly. “With the weight of the world on his shoulders and a planner in his pocket. And you know 20 year old Ignis with fresh scars and more to deal with than he could handle. But no, Noct. You don’t know Ignis now.”

Noctis couldn’t argue with that. After all, he’d thought he’d known Prompto. All his years in the crystal, all his planning, and he had never anticipated that his best friend would go against him. Because Prompto had never, ever gone against him. Had never raised a hand to him, not even while Noctis had his forearm against his windpipe thinking he was Ardyn.

He was beginning to realize how much could change in ten years.

“You could get to know him though,” Prompto said, the offer in his voice almost a plea. “You could get to know all of us. Gladio, Iggy, Iris, Aranea, Cindy, Talcott, Dave and the hunters… Everyone’s missed you so much, Noct.”

Noctis kept his eyes Prompto, noting the glaring absence from the list of names. Prompto glanced over at him, then visibly shied away from Noctis’s study of him. He hadn’t listed himself, though it was clearly what he wanted most. Some things never changed, Noctis thought sadly. Pity they were never the right ones.

“I wish I could.” He said, the quiet dark parting around his weary voice. “I really do, Prom. But gods aren’t patient, and neither are demons.”

“You’ll just let them puppet you to your death?” Prompto asked. “Just like that? You and Gladio and Ignis… You didn’t even try to find another way.”

“If there was another way I would take it.” Noctis sighed. “But there isn’t, Prompto.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. It’s my job. It’s my destiny.”

Prompto stared at him for a moment, then pushed himself off the wall, standing stiffly. He moved with a limp Noctis hadn’t noticed before.

“Did you get hurt on the way here?” Noctis asked, frowning.

Prompto ignored him. He walked straight over to the door out of the cell block, his eyes never leaving Noctis. He pulled off his wristband, waving his barcode at the panel. The door buzzed and opened with a thunk. Prompto’s unwavering attention made Noctis shift, uncomfortable.

“It’s so weird,” Prompto said slowly. “The double standards you have about destiny and jobs.”

“Prom…”

“Because my job was to grow up and be a big, empty, murderous suit of armor.”

“Prompto,”

“And you said that was bullshit.”

“It’s different.” Noctis was shaking his head, his lips tugging down in a frown as Prompto appeared to grow more and more upset. “Prom, it’s different.”

“The only difference,” 

Prompto was cracking. Crumbling. Noctis could see it happening. Could read the break in every line on his face. The way his lips twisted and pulled down, the way his hands clenched, the way his eyes went tight at the corners, too-bright with tears in the dim red light.

“The only difference is that the gods who made me are dead.”

The ring felt hot on Noctis’s hand. He could feel the gods and old kings stirring at the blasphemy, at the accusation. He tamped down on them. Tamped down on everything. Prompto was losing it, and he didn’t have time to spare. If he stayed here, someone would get hurt. He shoved himself to his feet, forcing himself past the pain and exhaustion.

Prompto had opened the next door. It was the best opening he was going to get.

“I’m sorry,” He said, and warped himself through the bars in a dizzying blur of magic.

Prompto was shooting even before he completed the first warp, and Noctis felt a bullet graze his arm. His right hand lifted automatically and clawed in the air.

Prompto screamed, and Noctis felt the bullet wound in his foot seal over in a blur of red mist. Noctis sucked in a breath, dropping the spell. He dragged himself back under control before he killed Prompto, before he drained him of his life force and sent him crumbling to dust like he had all those MTs in Gralea, like the demons, like--

The gun fired again, and Noctis didn’t warp. He looked down at his side, at the bloody, ragged hole torn there. He looked up at Prompto, blood streaming down his arm, his temple. He’d never seen the effect the ring’s Death spell had on a person before. It had torn the flesh off of Prompto’s arm and temple. Dizzying guilt tore through Noctis at the sight of him.

Then his weak leg was giving out and the world was tilting around him. Prompto caught him before he could fall. Caught him and was whispering, frantic and flighty and miserable, as they sunk to the ground together.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Noct.”

I can’t die here, Noctis thought, his brows knitting together. This can’t all have been for nothing.

But even as he thought it Prompto was pulling out a potion, pouring it over the wound in Noctis’s side with a shaken determination. 

“Jerk,” Noctis accused, his voice coming out haggard and rough. “I asked for one--”

He lost his breath, his right hand clawing in pain against Prompto’s shirt as the ring burned cold.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto was whispering still, over and over. “I’m sorry. I’ll make this right. I will, I’ll make this right.”

Noctis couldn’t wrap his brain around talking. Even with the potion, he was exhausted. Restraining the spell had been harder than casting it. And to top it off, now he was dealing with blood loss. He was already exhausted, already miserable and guilty.

“Just take me back,” He whispered. “Prom. Please.”

“Rest,” Prompto whispered, setting Noctis on the floor. His blood was spilling onto Noctis, hot drops across his face and arm as Prompto’s shaking hands checked the wound on his side. “Rest. I will when you wake up. I promise. I’m so sorry, Noct.”

Relief flooded Noctis as he let exhaustion drag him under. For a moment, his head was full of clamoring, even unconscious. For a moment he recoiled from sleep at the rage he felt from some of the many many beings he served as king.

Then things fell blissfully, suddenly silent. And for the first time in a long, long time, Noctis slept, and dreamed.

The moment he woke up, he knew something was wrong. He’d spent ten years feeling heavier and heavier in a place full of light. When he woke up, everything was dim and shadowed, and he felt lighter than he had in years.

He jerked upright, looking around wildly. To his right were two things. A high potion and Prompto’s phone. He grabbed the phone, unlocked it quickly (still the same passcode after all these years) and stared at the screen that waited for him.

Prompto had snapped a picture of himself, flashing the peace sign and giving a disarmingly bright smile that clashed with his teary, bloodshot eyes and the dried blood in his hair. Typed across it in white letters were the words ‘Sorry sleeping beauty.’

In the photo, held up between the fingers of Prompto's peace sign, was the ring of the Lucii.


End file.
